


Watch The Past Go Up In Smoke

by arizayna



Category: One Direction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arizayna/pseuds/arizayna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>because when you love someone the way i loved you, you never expect that someday you'll have to let them go, do you? the thing is, though, that love can only shine so bright without exploding into flames, catching fire and burning itself up into nothing, and sometimes it's easier to let the ashes fall, than to try and search through the wreckage for something, anything, to save again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch The Past Go Up In Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really lame because this is a repost from my livejournal, but this is my only means of self-justification of the fact that I haven't written anything in, like, three months. This one is also for Victoria because she's my little buttercup and I love her to bits :D ALSO ALSO this fic is written in sync with Six Degrees of Separation by The Script (those are what the six stages are in the story), and yeah. Listen to the song if you haven't already!

**the first**

 

If Zayn is being completely honest, he's got to admit that he doesn't want to remember Niall.

But it's hard to forget, when you've got the entire anatomy of someone ingrained inside your mind, permanently burned into the back of your thoughts, and Zayn finds himself delving back, even unintentionally, into the way Niall talks and the way he sleeps and the way he laughs, the way he eats, breathes, loves. He has Niall memorized like a tapestry inside his head, spread out to the very last tendrils of his consciousness, and he tries, he really  _does_  try to ignore it, but lately it's been getting more than just a little difficult.

He doesn't like thinking much about anything, he likes letting loose and going with wherever the winds blow him, but he finds himself lying there on the bed with the rest of the world shut out, thinking, trapped in the solitude of his own memories, Niall's memories, the ones they had together, and, like.

He misses him, is all.

Misses him so much it's like a physical ache, manifesting inside his chest and spreading out everywhere else, filling the space under his skin and between his veins, pouring through the marrow of his bones, and Zayn thinks it's like poison, slowly destroying him, destroying everything he's ever built with his hopes. And it hurts.

It's fucking ridiculous, yeah, because he knows he should be grateful that they're not fighting anymore, that it's all over, that one of them gave up and cut loose the strings that held them together. He should feel free, liberated, light like air. But there's something else that shouldn't be there, something that keeps him weighed down and Zayn doesn't know what it is, but he knows that it's been there since the day Niall left, and it's growing worse everyday, and he doesn't know if he wants to make it go away or not.

He wishes he were angry, or betrayed, bitter, vengeful, anything other than just sitting here, hurting in a way he's never hurt before, hurting like someone's pressing the burning end of a cigarette against his bare skin, hurting for no valid reason at all. Like there's a pair of jagged scissors tearing open his skin, widening a gash over his heart, in a place that he doesn't even remember existed.

If he wants to, he's able to remember the day he met Niall. The rushing waves crashing onto the shore, and the sunset that wasn't quite as gold as the color of Niall's hair. He's able to picture the wind whistling in his ear, the blue in Niall's eyes flecked with green and gold. He's able to remember everything, every last painful detail because it's a day that he never expected he'd want to forget. When you've got someone's past in your hands, and their present by your side, you never stop to consider a future without them, and Zayn thinks he should be stronger, and less pathetic, but he's not, he's nothing but a whining little boy stuck in someone else's memories, so enraptured by Niall's life that he forgot to look after his own, and- and bad things can happen when you do that, when you love so recklessly that you watch it explode at the very peak, stars shattering like diamonds. And even if Zayn made a wish on every single one of those stars, prayed and hoped that something would change, he knows that nothing will.

He'll always be back where he started. Niall's still gone, and he's still alone.  
\--

**the second**

"He'll be back," Liam tells him one night as they nurse a beer over the couch, staring at the television screen, and there's some shitty remake of American Idol on, but neither of them bothers to change the channel.

Zayn pops open the can of Tiger, tries to remember what it's like to say something and actually mean it. Contemplates if he should answer Liam at all, or kill him for bringing Niall up just when he'd slipped his thoughts. Shit, not really, though. Niall never slips Zayn's thoughts, and he knows that much by now.

"He'll be back," Liam says again. "I know he will."

Zayn's body shudders once, twice, thrice, and he tries to ignore it, ignore the tears pricking the back of his eyes as he turns his head up and stares at the ceiling, reversing the flow of emotions. But his reflex betrays him again, and pretty soon he's crying like a baby and when Liam pulls him into a hug that feels all wrong because his arms aren't as thin as Niall's and his body is bigger, Zayn doesn't pull away.

\--

**the third**

It's been a week. He should be okay by now, but  _fuck_. He really isn't. Like, not even a little bit, not even at all. He doesn't miss Niall any less even though he reckons that by now he should, by now he should have gotten some sort of idea on how to move on, or at least if he even wants to move on at all. But he hasn't, and he might blame it on his dysfunctional emotions, but he doesn't because he knows that if he wanted, if he really, really wanted, he could go out, get wasted and just fuck strangers until he forgets the way that Niall felt inside him. But he doesn't. He's not really sure  _why_ , though.

All his clothes smell like Niall, like stinging paint and green apple, a dangerous combination of sweet and sour, just like Niall himself. And it's just. It hurts, it always hurts. Never stops hurting. The bed's too big and too empty and too cold, and even if Zayn throws out his arms and legs to try and occupy the vacant space where Niall should be, it's not enough. He can still feel him, like a ghost, the phantom shape lingering on the sheets.

Zayn thinks he might be losing his mind.

He wants to leave the apartment, wants to forget that this place was once a home for two hearts beating at the same time, and now it's like his own chest is too small, and his heart is beating out of time, stuttering and choking because it doesn't know what to do exactly. It feels like the walls are going to come crumbling down, because the only real thing that ever held them up is gone now, and all that's left are memories solid enough to keep it together. It's all an illusion, though. One day the memories will fade into nonexistence, and there'll be nothing left.

He dreams about it all falling apart at night. His mind feeds him vivid images of the house collapsing in on itself, crushing Zayn under the debris, and somewhere off the side he almost hears Niall's laughter echoing into silence as he wakes up thrashing on an empty sweat-sodden bed.

He feels like an addict, taken off the very drug that he craves the most, suffering from more withdrawal than he ever planned on. Niall's voice and his breath and his touch, buried under layers and layers of blue inside his eyes, and Zayn is desperate, wanting and needing more than he should, more than he has any right to, and he knows it's selfish, but what more can he do when he's lost everything that reminds him of who he is?

It's like something's torn through the very fibre of his entire world, splitting it down the middle and creating a large fissure to let everything he'd ever loved fall through, out of his reach. Sometimes Zayn wants to jump in himself, and just end it all.

But he doesn't, because the one thing that keeps him grounded is still there.  _Hope_. It's a little bitch, scampering in and out of view, turning around the corner and messing his thoughts up, but. Having loose hope that's barely there is better than having no hope at all, and Zayn doesn't want to stop hoping yet.

He likes the way it tastes, likes it when he can almost feel Niall coming back to him, likes how hope shines a small little light at the end of a long narrow black passageway, guiding Zayn and making him stumble through the darkness, following it desperately. He doesn't even know where it leads, but he can only pray that eventually it'll bring him back to security, to home, and to Niall.

\--

**the fourth**

Two, three weeks later, and Zayn's waking up without remembering the exact number of freckles on Niall's cheek, not remembering exactly where his fingers would splay across the skin on his hip, or how they felt. He isn't reminded of Niall pressed against his waist, bones jutting together every time they moved. He doesn't quite remember if there were more tones of gold or sienna in Niall's hair, or how cold the metal of his braces were a few months ago. The image of Niall in his mind is starting to fade, along with the scars over his body, and it's a slow process but- but anything is better than nothing, anything is better than missing Niall the way he did.

The photo albums are collecting dust in the corner, and Zayn hasn't touched them in a while. The smell of Niall has faded, and the bed's caved in, succumbing to his solitary weight, and maybe, just  _maybe_ , he doesn't feel Niall's body inside his arms the way he used to.

Liam calls him out on a Sunday night, to a club with a long name that Zayn doesn't remember, tucked away in a faraway town that he never knew existed, and filled with a ton of girls who don't know who he is or what he's done, and Zayn likes it.

Liam gets him to drink, more than he does himself, and Zayn knows he should feel sick that Liam is doing this, that Liam's gotten so worried about him, that Liam would drive him out and force one two three four shots down his throat, that Liam tak  _this_  much pity on him. Zayn doesn't want his pity, doesn't want his sympathy or his free drinks or his late nights, but he doesn't refuse it either. He thinks he's bound to start drinking it off anyway, and now is as a good a time to start as any other.

Strangers and memories and haunting words aren't there anymore, and for once Zayn gets a full night's sleep. He wakes up in the morning with alcohol in his breath and a headache, but he thinks that a hangover is better than missing Niall. Anything at all is better than missing Niall, really.

"You're okay now, you know," Liam says over the phone that afternoon.

"I'm okay," Zayn repeats, and it sounds like a mantra, a rule to obey. He's okay. He's okay. "I'm okay."

_You're not okay_ , a voice whispers, and it sounds like Niall's, but Zayn's not sure, he doesn't really remember what Niall's voice sounds like anymore. And he doesn't even know if he wants to.

\--

**the fifth**

In the end, no matter what Zayn tells himself, it's all his fault.

He's at the coffee table on an autumn afternoon, loosely stirring the warm mug of cappuccino, letting heat spread through his hand whenever he touches the sides of the cup. The coffee's too bitter for his liking, just like everything else, but he doesn't complain. He's done too much of that already.

There's a sudden breeze, and Zayn looks up, and then he hears  _that_  voice,  _that_  laugh, and he would've sworn that he's okay now, better than he's ever been, but he has that  _one_ person memorized, imprinted in the back of his mind, and suddenly everything is pouring forth, filling the space in his mind and Zayn doesn't want to look, knows he shouldn't, he absolutely fucking should not look, but he does anyway, he can't help it, and  _oh_.

Niall's standing barely a few feet away, with his back facing Zayn and his mouth open and that musical rippling laughter gushing from his lips like water, and Zayn feels his lungs shrink three sizes too small, and he suddenly doesn't have the ability to grab in enough air anymore.

He makes a choked sound, and immediately hates himself for it, because Niall turns around, and even if Zayn isn't looking at him anymore, there's a familiar heat on the back of his neck which means that Niall's seen him, the intensity of those blue eyes burning into the skin like a physical touch.

He wishes they'd pretend that neither saw the other, that they'd both be too cowardly to face one another, not now, and not ever. But he knows that it's stupid, because it's barely a second later when Niall's coming over to him, and Zayn looks up, and fuck, it's a concerted effort to not just fucking grab him by the back of his head and pull him in and kiss him for all he's worth.

"Hi."

Zayn opens his mouth, feels the word leave his lips without consent. "Hey."

Niall shifts on his feet, glancing at the seat, like he's wondering whether he should sit down, or just keep standing. "How are you?" he asks, after a moment, still on his feet.

"I'm-" Zayn stops himself before he can say that he's  _fine_ , because he's not fine at all. He clears his throat. "How are you?"

Niall shrugs. Looks Zayn in the eye. "Happy."

And that one word sends invisible daggers sinking into the edges of Zayn's skin, because the thought that Niall is  _happy_ , without him, it just- it hurts, it hurts so bad.

Niall runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time Zayn notices that it's in a mess, tousled like someone's been pulling on it, shit, it looks just like it would whenever Zayn fucked him in the back of their car, fingers tangling inside the sweaty mess of blonde and brown like anchors, and-

"Sex hair," he observes, and he should mean it as a joke, but he really,  _really_  doesn't.

Niall looks down, and the color of red on his cheeks is two shades too dark, too guilty, and Zayn thinks that he's beautiful, so so beautiful. Niall looks around, and he tries to say something but the words get stuck in his throat and he just shrugs, looking back at Zayn.

Zayn wants to talk, wants to say something, anything other than just sitting there like an idiot and feeling like he's trapped underwater with his lungs burning for air, but he doesn't. Just nods.

"I- I have a boyfriend," Niall blurts finally, and he immediately shuts his mouth, like he never meant to say anything, like he wishes he could take it back, but of course he can't, Zayn's already heard, and all of a sudden there's something cold squeezing around his chest and he doesn't remember how to think or breathe.

"Niall, I've got your coffee."

Niall turns around to the sound of the voice, and gives the person a small smile that doesn't touch his eyes. It's a tall boy, with pretty green eyes and luscious curly hair and dimples in his cheeks, but Zayn can't help thinking that  _this_  is the boy who's replaced him, who'll do everything that he'll never get to do again, who has everything that no longer belongs to Zayn.

"Harry, uh," Niall hesitates. "This is Zayn."

Harry gives Zayn a big grin with the dimples caving in both his cheeks, his eyes lighting up like sea glass. "Hi, Zayn. I'm Harry."

"Zayn's my- my old friend," Niall says.

Harry keeps smiling, offering out his hand, but Zayn doesn't shake it.

"We should go," Niall tells him. "I've got- errands to run, don't I, Harry?"

Harry nods, but he looks confused as he pulls back from Zayn. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

Zayn closes his eyes, takes a breath. "You too."

"I'll see you around, then," Harry gives him another innocent smile, and he throws his arm around Niall's shoulders, and it  _hurts_ , the way Niall leans into the touch, body moving against Harry's the way it used to do with Zayn's.

He watches them leave, counts to thirty, and then glances down at his own mug of coffee on the table, just as cold and bitter as he feels right now.

\--

**the sixth**

It's maybe two, or three, in the morning, and Zayn doesn't know or care.

Liam dropped by earlier in the day, for no reason except to put an arm around Zayn and tell him everything's okay, and Zayn cried, bawled like the baby that he is, and sat there on the couch, nursing his broken heart while Liam went around the flat, tossing out any photographs of Niall that Zayn had.

He left after an hour, saying he'd call, and Zayn nodded, sitting down by himself on an empty bed and wondering where it went wrong.

He wishes he were brave enough to call Niall, to say he's sorry, he  _knows_  what he did and he knows that he fucked up, and he wishes there were a way for him to take it all back.

The phone remains out of reach, and Zayn doesn't even remember Niall's number anymore, doesn't know if he wants to. The breath in his lungs is labored and dusty and stale with emptiness, his hands are cold, and he's a mess.

His body is splayed across the couch, and he feels like a lifeless rag doll, and everything that has kept his heart beating up till this very moment is gone, and he's nothing but a human body carrying out the basic functions of breathing and existing, and Zayn's given up. Nothing is going to change, and he doesn't expect it to. He's skin and bone, and beneath the flesh he's metal, and he's  _cold_ , so cold.

He just lies there and stares at the wall and he doesn't feel like doing anything. He knows he should cry, but he doesn't even deserve to. He had everything, and he's lost it all because he's stupid and selfish and he  _knows_  it.

The hours pass, and it's nearly six in the morning when he falls asleep, an empty body with a soul that's long since ebbed away, and when the phone rings with Liam checking in, he doesn't bother to pick it up.

\--


End file.
